


Not Bad for a Desk Agent

by ashes0909



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Playing Dirty, Roughhousing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 15:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13034382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashes0909/pseuds/ashes0909
Summary: Don't underestimate Agent Coulson.





	Not Bad for a Desk Agent

“Watch your step everyone, we have a desk agent in our midst,” the newest trainee whispered conspiratorially to the rest of the baby agents. Clint resisted the urge to grit his teeth and snapped his fingers at them instead. They quieted immediately.

He didn’t know why Fury insisted on having him train the green boys and girls, but the only upside was watching them make complete fools of themselves. Anyone who walked through SHIELDs front door and thought they were a hotshot, usually didn’t last long, and Mr. Watch Your Step was definitely acting like a hotshot. Did he just flex in the mirror?

Agent Coulson appeared to be ignoring them all, walking past the mats the new trainees were wrestling on in favor of the nearby treadmill. Clint could see in the way the corner of Coulson’s mouth twitched, that he was amused, but he wasn’t going to let the trainee’s know that he even recognized their existence in the gym. He did send a nod Clint’s way, though, which was practically a hug when it came to Coulson.

If his eyes lingered when Coulson stripped off his shirt and wrapped a towel around his neck, that was no one’s business but his own. And, well, Coulson’s, who definitely didn’t normally stretch this much before going for a jog. 

“Why’s he even working out?” 

Clint turned back to snap again, but was instantly distracted. Was this kid seriously still flexing in the mirror? They needed a kill-switch for the mirrored walls, if trainees were going to be so incredibly full of themselves.

“I think all Agents need to stay combat-fit,” a quieter voice replied. Miss Vidal, if Clint recalled correctly. At least someone had done the reading. But before he could tell her that she was, in fact, correct. Mr. Watch Your Step rolled his eyes.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. What a waste of training. Look at this guy.” He gestured towards Coulson on the treadmill, who was still pointedly ignoring them. “You need to put both of his arms together to get the width of one of mine.” And again with the flexing. “If someone actually did attack SHIELD headquarters and go after their desk agents, for some ridiculous reason, they are obviously going to need the field agents’ protection, anyway.” 

“Do you know who that is?” Miss Vidal hissed.

“I’m guessing: no,” Clint replied, arms crossing his chest, ready to berate the baby agent.

“Look at me,” the recruit continued. “Completely, ‘untrained’.” (He even did the air quotes.) “I bet I could take this fully trained desk agent right now.”

Coulson turned his head, eyes narrowed with a laser focus that Clint knew meant someone had fallen in his trap. Clint hadn’t even seen him setting one in play, but here they were. He kept his stride steady on the treadmill, not even breaking a sweat. “What are the terms?”

Mr. Flex-a-Lot grinned. “Hell, if you beat me in hand to hand combat, I  _ should _ drop out of training. So that’s what I’ll put on the line.”

Coulson took his time to press the pause button on the treadmill, step off, and walk over. His hands pulled at the towel that was still around his neck, and Clint was pretty sure he was blatantly staring at his bare chest, but who could blame him? When he wanted to, Coulson could sure swagger his stride, and all eyes were on him as he walked across the mat and held out his hand for the idiot recruit. “And if you win, I’ll let you take me around and tell everyone you bested Agent Coulson.”

“Why does that name sound familiar…?”

“Deal?” Coulson asked, calm and firm, and now Muscle Man looked like he was reconsidering this whole thing. His head tilted on his neck like a dog trying to figure out what his human was saying. 

“You chicken?” Clint very unprofessionally goaded, because he’d knew it’d be enough to get the recruit back in a betting mood. 

Predictably, he scoffed. “Never. Deal.”

Clint would not admit aloud to the satisfied spark under his skin when Coulson broke eye contact with the recruit and nodded at him again. Then he was all business, backing up on the mat and readying himself in a fighting stance. The soon-to-be ex-recruit went to the opposite side, fists up and already grinning.

“Ready?” Clint asked, suddenly finding himself to be the default referee. As their instructor, he should  _ probably _ call this off, but oh well, this was exactly why Fury shouldn’t have him training. He sent a quick smile to Coulson then lifted his arm. “Go.”

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Full of Himself lunged first. Coulson let him enter his space, dodged a flying fist and shot his hand out to grab the guy’s thick wrist. With one turn of his hand the man’s giant bicep was flying into the air and crashing onto the mat. Coulson’s well placed foot landed on his windpipe. The man’s muscular arms sure did flutter like anyone else’s when they were gasping for air. 

“Yield?” Coulson asked.

The man sputtered.

Coulson pressed his foot down harder, and under its weight the recruit was turning purple. Finally, he tapped out.

Coulson stepped back immediately. The ex-recruit’s class was cheering and clapping. “Good-- Good riddance,” Miss Vidal managed to shout, though it was mostly drowned out by the general celebrations.

“Guess this is goodbye,” Clint heard Coulson say and turned to see him leaning over the man, his workout pants stretching so that he saw the jut of his hip out of the top of the waistband.

“And this is class dismissed!” Clint shouted over the cheers, eyes still on Coulson. It wasn’t time yet, but he didn’t care, their gym session had derailed and it wasn’t worth resettling them for another ten minutes. Especially not when Coulson was now stretching his triceps on the mat, eyes locked on Clint.

They were both silent as the gym emptied. The door slammed behind the last person and Coulson’s eyes narrowed. He started circling the mat, hands coming up to settle in loose fists by his face. Clint matched his stance. “That was quite a show you put on, sir.”

“So easy to quiet the boastful.” 

“And hot, too.” Coulson turned on his feet, Clint followed. “I like this new shirtless gym thing you got going on.” Coulson looked down for just a second and if this was a real sparring match, that’s when Clint would’ve taken his opening but instead his eyes followed Coulson’s as they roamed over his chest. 

“Yes, well.” Coulson looked up at Clint, the corner of his smile turning with mischief. “It can be entertaining, I’ll admit it, to watch you squirm a bit.”

Clint’s blood rushed with a mix of humiliation and arousal and that’s when he took his opening, because he knew when he was being baited. He went low, but Coulson was quick enough to jump. It was sloppy though, and Clint was able to get a hit into his thigh before standing. Coulson shook out his leg, then bounced into a defensive position. “Someone’s sensitive,” Coulson teased, light on his feet as they reset on the mat. “You shouldn’t be so easy to distract, Barton.”

“I’m not.” Clint dodged Coulson’s punch, then turned and aimed for his cheek in reply. It landed in a satisfying thunk and Coulson’s head shot back. “I can multitask.”

Coulson shook the hit off and grinned despite the split skin. He looked rugged, hair out of place and breath coming out ragged, and Clint wanted to get his hands all over him so he rushed recklessly forward, knocking them both off balance and onto the mat. He only had a second to take in a breath before Coulson was spinning them, lying on top of him and trying to get control of Clint’s wrists. He kept trying to buck his weight but it was hard to get leverage with the way Coulson’s thighs were pressing against the outside of his hips. Clint reached up and pulled at Coulson’s hair, which made Coulson punch Clint’s side. In response, Clint punched Coulson’s side just as hard, and then they were spinning again on the mat, fighting for the upper hand. 

The bare skin of Coulson’s chest rubbed and teased against Clint, and he knew it was a dick move, but it was also an easy one  - he twisted at Coulson’s nipple. Hard.

Coulson groaned and wriggled on top of him, trying to get away. He flung another wild punch and Clint had to let go of his grip on the sensitive nub to block it. With Coulson’s fist in his hand, Clint leaned forward and continued torturing Coulson’s chest with his mouth, biting and sucking skin that his fingers had already made raw. Obscene noises fell from Coulson’s mouth and adrenaline surged through Clint's blood, making him press his hips up into Coulson’s. They were both hard, and Coulson’s groans had turned to moans. 

Clint took a breath and flipped them again, this time sitting astride Coulson, instead of lying on top of him, hands running up and down Coulson’s red and love-bitten chest. “Yield?” Clint asked, rolling his hips. Under him, Coulson was trying to catching his breath, arms splayed to the side in a T-shape, looking for all the world like Clint had bested him. “Do I get to take you around and tell everyone I ‘bested Agent Coulson’.” 

He shouldn’t have goaded and made the air quotes at the same time, that was when Coulson took his opening, legs locking as he shoved forward and rolled them back, reversing their position. Coulson leaned forward until their mouths were only inches apart, panting breaths falling on each others lips. “You know, I was pulling my punches.”

“Me too, sir.” And because Clint never denied himself pleasure he ground his hips up into Coulson. “Why don’t you pull something else.”

“That was horrible, Barton.” Coulson scoffed but still did as Clint suggested, hand sliding into Clint’s workout pants and wrapping around his cock. “One punch below the belt and you would’ve been down.”

“Aw, no.” Clint’s pout was replaced with a moan as Coulson twisted his wrist. “You wouldn’t want to bruise your favorite part of me.” Clint thrust a few times into Coulson’s hand as emphasis.

Coulson shook his head and leaned down for a surprisingly affectionate kiss. When he pulled back he stayed close, his other hand came to Clint’s hip and pressed down firmly. “One of my favorite parts,” Coulson hissed against his ear, then bit the lobe before shoving back entirely, pulled Clint’s pants down as he came to settle on his heels. 

Clint’s erection flopped onto his stomach, and Coulson was still pressing him into the mat. A challenge, or at least that’s how Clint took it, because he wanted Coulson under him. Clint moved fast, using the benefit of surprise to knock Coulson’s hand off his hip and push him down, pulling off his pants so that Coulson was finally naked. He grabbed both of Coulson’s wrists and pinned them above Coulson’s head before taking both their erections in his hand and stroking.

“I let you do that,” Coulson gasped. 

“Sure you did.” Clint’s breath caught. 

“Yeah-- oh, that feels -- Yeah -- so good Clint-- I love it when you show off that training I gave you when you were -- oh yes! -- just as green and boastful as that punk. Fuck, not gonna last.”

He gripped his hand tighter around both of them in reply. “I-- I was never as bad as that kid.” 

“Sure. Of course not.” And if Coulson could still be that sarcastic, Clint needed to up the pace. Sweat built between them, sliding them together and adding to the heat against their cocks. Clint built them up, right until the edge, till he saw Coulson’s eyes roll back into his head. Then, he froze. “Yield?” he asked again, voice shaking along the word because his skin was tingling, ready to explode. 

Coulson barked out a laugh. “Not at all.” He brought his arm up to wrap around Clint, and Clint braced his weight, to make sure that Coulson wouldn’t be able to flip them again, but left his hand just a little too loose around their cocks. 

None of it mattered, because Coulson didn’t flip them. Coulson pressed his finger between the crease of Clint’s ass and pushed raw into his rim. It burned, rough and hard and perfect. “Yield?”    
Coulson whispered in his ear, stretching his hole, and Clint moaned, coming in long white bursts onto their chests. 

“Yield.” He was pliant on top of Coulson, a useless slump of pleasure and afterglow, but he could still feel Coulson hard between them. Wrapping his fist around him was easy even in his floating state. “Yield,” he moaned again, stroking a steady rhythm as he bared his neck so Coulson could moan into the curve of it. “You won. You got me.” Coulson shuddered and came with a silent moan. 

As soon as his orgasm finished, Coulson was chuckling, and Clint made to move, to ask him what was so funny, but Coulson’s hands started running up and down his back and it felt too good to move. “Why are you laughing?”

“All it took was some brat for me to finally beat you in a sparring match again.”

“You fought dirty,” Clint reminded.

“What can I say, I picked up some tricks from my favorite trainee. We should get up.” Coulson tapped on Clint’s shoulder.

Clint pushed onto his feet, the cold chill of the gym hitting his skin, and he wished they could lay around for longer but he knew Coulson was right. “Wouldn’t want the new recruits to see how we really treat desk agents?” 

A pair of workout pants hit Clint’s face. “Back to work, Agent.”


End file.
